


Hound's Flowers and Gifts

by OrangeTabby



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Language, F/M, Flowers, Fluff and Humor, Language of Flowers, Post-Quiet Isle, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:07:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23017510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrangeTabby/pseuds/OrangeTabby
Summary: Sansa needs a passive-aggressive bunch of flowers. Sandor is happy to provide....A short story with the language of flowers, romance, hope, and a fluffy black cat named Stranger.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 106
Kudos: 324





	Hound's Flowers and Gifts

**Author's Note:**

> Some selected flowers and their meanings:
> 
> Auricula (scarlet) – Pride, greed  
> Azalea – femininity, an abundance of intelligence and beauty. Health and good fortune.  
> Carnation (white) – honour and remembrance. Associations with military veterans.  
> Daffodil – New beginnings, luck in the future  
> Geranium – foolishness and stupidity  
> Gillyflower – happy life  
> Gladiolus – strength, overcoming difficulties  
> Iris (blue) – Hope, wisdom and valour  
> Lemon balm – a pest repellent  
> Lilac (purple) – new love  
> Lily (orange) – hatred  
> Meadowsweet – uselessness  
> Petunia – anger  
> Rose (blue) – perceived unattainability  
> Rose (white) – innocence  
> Sweet Alyssum – emotional balance, worth beyond beauty
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/159497572@N07/49618518573/in/dateposted-public/)  
> 

Someone obviously cared very much for the large garden in front of Hound’s Flowers and Gifts. Sansa paused on the path, looking around and sighing in contentment. There was never a weed in sight, nor any rubbish in evidence. The profusion of wildflowers seemed to blend harmoniously even with the dizzying mix of colours. The gardener had planted blue iris flowers and daffodils with particular frequency, and they swirled amongst the wildflowers with abandon.

The owner of the florist opened the garden to the public, so Sansa always sat there on days she worked, eating her packed lunch. Anything to destress after working with Petyr, and it was only a five-minute walk from his office. Her favourite bench was positioned under what she had been delighted to discover was a real weirwood tree, though it didn’t have a face. A fluffy black cat, who seemed to belong to the shop, or possibly the shop belonged to the cat, liked to join her. It never even begged to share her food. It usually sat beside her, enjoying the garden and providing easy company after her stressful mornings at work.

Sansa went inside the shop twice a week, to purchase fresh bouquets of flowers. It took much of her spare money to do so, though they were inexpensive, but the paintings they inspired were very special. There was something magical about the bouquets here, assembled with such care and attention to detail. She wondered if the florist were the same person who lavished such love upon the garden. If so, she would certainly be intrigued to meet them, but the shop was always so busy she didn’t like to ask. 

She glanced down as a friendly chirp got her attention.

“Hello there,” she said to the resident cat, who wound around her legs in response.

She bent down to pat it. Its thick black fur was hot from lying in the sun and Sansa smiled.

“I’m not stopping to eat today,” she told the cat, “I’m just here for flowers.”

Hound’s Flowers and Gifts was legendarily popular in the region, and for good reason, given the quality of its stock. It was the bottom half of an historic two-storey cottage that had been converted into a shop. The cottage was wooden, unlike many of the other buildings in Maidenpool, which were composed of the local pink stone. The owner had painted the building a gentle buff colour which both echoed the stone and complimented the wildflowers in the garden.

At the top of the few steps leading up to the door, she reached into her homemade tote bag and briefly checked her phone to make sure the list it contained was there and safe. The cat followed her inside the cottage and promptly disappeared into one of the aisles containing gifts.

An exceptionally large man wearing a plaid shirt and a large leather apron was serving customers. His appearance made Sansa’s steps falter slightly, because he had terrible burn scars on one half of his bearded face. Sansa looked around for the lovely lady who normally worked there, Gilly, but she was nowhere in sight.

Bunches of sweet alyssum were stationed to the sides of the counter, flanking the man with delicate sweetness. A faint scent of honeycomb was detectable from the flowers, even from across the store.

There was a short queue of customers, so Sansa joined the back of the line, glancing around at the new stock of gifts as she waited.

“Scarlet auricula are rare, so I’d need to order them in. They’d be here tomorrow morning,” the big man was saying to the woman at the head of the queue. Sansa found her gaze being pulled away from the handmade cheese boards and back to him. She didn’t want to stare, but there was something compelling about the man. He seemed to dominate the whole room with his presence.

The injury to his face must have been incredibly painful, even with the treatment he presumably got from specialised maesters. He had pulled part of his long, dark hair over his forehead and cheek to hide where the scars had prevented his beard from growing. The undamaged half of his face was striking though, and his size, well. Sansa chose not to date anymore, and hadn’t regretted that decision, but there was something about the physicality of this man that awoke a feeling of desire in her that she thought had died. 

“You don’t seem to realise that I need the auriculas today,” said woman, enunciating her words carefully as if the man serving might have trouble understanding her. Her blonde up-do quivered in righteous fury as she spoke. “Ordering them in just isn’t acceptable.”

A flash of anger crossed the scarred man’s face, but then he seemed to mentally pull himself back and remain calm. “Up to you then,” he said indifferently.

“Well obviously I need to speak to your manager, since you are entirely useless,” snapped the woman, her voice getting shrilly louder.

The man barked a laugh. “Fuck off,” he said, the rasping forced politeness of his tone contrasting with his choice of words. “We can talk again if you decide to get your shit together and behave.”

He stepped to the side and beckoned the next person in line to come up.

Sansa coughed a laugh into her fist.

The blonde woman stormed out of the store in a clack of high heels and indignation.

The line moved forward and Sansa spotted a set of black dice on the nearest shelf, of varying sizes and shapes. She picked up one she recognised as a twenty-sided dice and examined it. The card beside the set said they were hand-carved from dragonglass. Bran would appreciate something like this for his nameday, she knew. He and Jojen were part of a tabletop roleplaying group.

All the gifts in the shop had little cards with them, detailing the craftspeople who produced them. Here in Maidenpool there was a thriving arts and crafts community, which was one of the nicer reasons she moved here after graduating with a degree in Fine Arts from Kings Landing University. Sansa liked coming to see what new items they had in stock. They were always locally sourced from the small towns around the mouth of the Trident and the inner area of the Bay of Crabs. She usually purchased her family and friends’ nameday gifts from here. Theon still raved about how much he loved the unusual small wooden abstract sculpture she’d bought him. It had been festooned with whimsical tentacles, which was apparently all the rage on the Iron Islands.

Sansa turned around at the faint tugging sensation on her tote bag. A tiny little girl, who had been standing with a woman and a boy in the queue in front of her, was delicately touching the blue winter roses that she’d appliqued onto her bag.

Sansa knelt down and smiled as she held up her tote. The small girl smiled back and ran her fingers over the vintage fabrics that composed the roses. She had black hair and striking grey eyes. Her jumper had three puppies printed on the front, and Sansa recognised them from one of the shows Robb’s children watched.

“Sorry about Eleanor,” said the boy, who looked startlingly like his sister. He even had a top with the same characters on it. “She likes anything with flowers on it.”

“I don’t mind showing her my bag. Blue winter roses are very special where I come from in the North.”

Sansa chatted to the children until their mother went up to the counter and they joined her. They didn’t seem to react at all to the man’s damaged face, they just watched as their mother bought one of the pre-made bouquets.

“The kids allowed a lollipop?” asked the man gruffly.

When the mother said that they were, he reached under the counter and produced two lollipops tied to miniature white roses with a ribbon, which he handed to each child.

Eleanor shrieked with excitement and her brother thanked the man. The family left the store wreathed in smiles.

It was finally Sansa’s turn.

“Hello. Um, where is Gilly?” Sansa supressed a wince. That was not what she intended to say, nor how she intended to say it.

The man shrugged. “Her kid is sick. She’s having a couple of days off to look after him.”

“Are you a new shop assistant?” Sansa blurted.

Why was she so unsettled? Being good at socialising was supposed to be Her Thing. Apparently she now became reduced to being a bumbling mess when she had to deal with a man she found compelling.

He scowled. “I’m the florist. Sandor Clegane. This is my store.”

Sansa let out a long breath through her nose. This was the man who was responsible for that incredible garden and those stunning bouquets?

She plastered on a socially appropriate smile. “Of course,” she said. “Um, sorry.”

“Don’t be fucking sorry, girl,” he rasped, rolling his eyes. “I know mean fuckers like me aren’t usually florists.”

Sansa blinked. How was she supposed to say the correct, socially acceptable things if he refused to say the right things back to her? Why was he using the f-word so much? Why did he call himself mean when he’d literally just given children a free lollipop and flower each? She pursed her lips and went with a fairly neutral statement. “Anyone can be a florist if they want to be a florist.”

He paused for a moment, then let out a breath like she just had. “The gardens and the shop keep me fucking calm.”

“Okay. That’s… good.” Sansa realised she hadn’t introduced herself to the man who could produce botanical magic when he gave her his name. “I’m Sansa Stark.”

“Right, what’s your order?” he asked, ignoring the offer of her name. He grabbed a pen and paper and looked at her expectantly.

Sansa felt her eyebrows drawing together in a frown of involuntary indignation. Had he even heard what she said?

She tried womanfully to claw her composure back, and reached into her tote for her phone.

“Well, I need a bouquet with,” she unlocked her phone and found the list she’d painstakingly researched, “geraniums, petunias, orange lily, and I’m not sure if you’ll have these, but meadowsweet and lemon balm.”

Sandor put down his pen when he’d finished writing and eyed her. “You must really fucking hate the person you’re giving these to.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Sansa said nervously.

She knew exactly what he was talking about.

Sandor ran a huge finger down his list as he read. “Geranium means foolishness and stupidity. Petunias are a symbol of anger.” He hesitated briefly and scrunched his face up in thought. “Orange Lily is full on fucking hatred, if I recall correctly. I do have meadowsweet, which means uselessness. Lemon balm is a pest repellent.”

Sansa shuffled her feet. This was what Arya must have felt like back in high school when she was always being called in to see the principal. 

Sandor raised his eyebrow.

“I need to paint a picture of them,” she said finally.

“For someone you want to murder, Sansa Stark?” Sandor said, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

So he had been paying attention. As much attention as she was trying not to pay to the way the muscles in his arms bulged. She huffed. “No, for my boss Petyr. I only work part time and the rest of the time I’m an artist.”

Sandor nodded slowly. “That’s why you come in here twice a week.”

“You noticed how often I shop here?” she asked, startled.

Sandor lifted one shoulder, looking shifty. “We have security cameras. The monitors are back in my workshop. You’re hard to miss.”

Sansa hummed, but decided to let it go. “I see. Yes, I paint still life pictures with your flowers. I sell a lot online, but that money alone would be a struggle to live on. Hence why I work for Petyr.”

“So your boss wants one of your paintings,” said Sandor, looking down at the list, brow creased in thought.

“Yes, and it’s really hard to get part time work around here. But I…” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “I don’t like him.”

Sandor scowled, ferocious in his sudden indignation. “Is he hassling you? Because if he is…”

Sansa grimaced and shook her head. “It’s fine, really. He just touches my shoulder sometimes, or my hair. He stares at me a lot. Once he asked if I could pose for some photos for a side business he has, but I said no, and he didn’t fire me or anything. Occasionally he calls me Cat, which is my mother’s name. They were friends a long time ago.”

“He sounds like a fucking creep,” said Sandor, sounding incensed by the very concept of Petyr and Sansa smiled because she’d forgotten that not all Southern men were awful.

“Well yes, hence the bouquet.” She smiled more broadly then. “I need my job, but I’ll feel better knowing what the flowers really mean. And who knows, if he hangs my painting of his Hate Flowers up in the office like he says he will, maybe other people will commission me.”

Sandor glanced around the store, but Sansa had been the last in line and no one had yet joined them. “Can I see your work?” he said, looking back at her.

Sansa nodded and pulled up the gallery of her previous paintings on her phone. She primarily worked in watercolour, and they were the pictures she sold online.

Sandor scrolled through the photos, his big fingers nimble on the screen as he hummed in pleased-sounding recognition at the arrangements he’d crafted, and Sansa had painted. Sansa tried not to fidget as she awaited his opinion. She knew she was technically skilled. She’d worked very hard over the years on her paintings. Art was in the eye of the beholder though. Much like beauty, Sansa thought as she studied Sandor’s remarkable face.

“You’re talented as fuck,” he said eventually. “These are outstanding.”

Sansa sagged a little in relief, though the opinion of a man she’d only truly met a few minutes ago really shouldn’t matter to her. Even if she had been frequenting what turned out to be his shop for quite some time now. “Thank you,” she replied.

The fluffy black cat emerged from amongst the shelves of artisan crafts, and jumped up onto the counter with a chirp.

“Hello again,” said Sansa, stroking the cat. She giggled as it headbutted her chest.

“Piss off, Stranger,” Sandor said, without heat. “You know what happened last time, you terrible beast.”

The cat ostentatiously ignored Sandor.

“What happened last time?” asked Sansa, curious.

“The fucking cat knocked over all my flowers.” Sandor nodded to the vases of sweet alyssum. “Since then we’ve had an agreement that he stays on the floor only.”

Sansa scratched Stranger under his chin, and he stretched luxuriously into her touch. “You named your cat after one of the Seven?” she asked, a touch uneasy at this blasphemy.

Sandor shrugged. “Aye, it suited the little shit. Thought he was going to die as a kitten. He was puny as fuck when I rescued him, had to bottle feed him every two hours. Kept him in a sling with me while I was doing my flowers. Luckily we live upstairs.” He glanced up towards the second floor.

The mental image of a big strong man like Sandor with a kitten nestled in a baby sling against his broad chest was an arresting one.

Stranger meowed loudly, and Sansa realised she’d paused mid-scritch and was staring at Sandor. He was staring back, an unreadable expression on his face.

The door chime sounded, and another customer came in.

“Have you got all of these flowers?” Sansa asked, conscious of not monopolising his time and hindering the normal running of the shop. She remembered the antics of the blonde woman and added with a grin, “Or do I need to make a scene and dramatically flounce out of here?”

He barked a laugh, then nodded. “I’ll have to go out back and make it for you. I’ll just serve this fucker,” he inclined his head towards a one-eyed man now standing behind Sansa, “then I’ll do it.”

Sansa smiled at him again, though perhaps not as broadly as she might have had he not called the next customer the f-word.

Leaving Stranger to flop down across the entirety of the counter, she stepped to the side and examined one of the bunches of sweet alyssum. She stroked a finger along a tiny petal. The sweet smell reminded her of making honey on toast for Rickon’s breakfast when they were younger.

“Hound,” said the one-eyed man, and Sansa realised that must be Sandor’s nickname and the origin of the unusual shop name.

“Cunt,” replied Sandor, though he sounded as if he was being friendly.

Sansa had never heard anyone say such a shocking word in a nice way before. Her traitorous brain supplied the thought that he seemed like a man who might use that word in other, more intimate circumstances, and a frisson of scandalised arousal shivered down her spine.

“Did the Elder Brother email you about the flowers for the meeting?”

“Aye he did,” replied Sandor, “and you’d be aware of that if you’d use technology like a normal person.”

The one-eyed man grinned. “I get by without it.” He patted Stranger, who then rolled over to display his belly. “That’s clearly a trap, cat. I still have the scars from last time I fell for that one.” He looked back at Sandor. “EB said to remember to include the white carnations.”

Sandor grunted in assent. “And the gladioli, aye it’s all ready to go.”

The newcomer gave a flourishing bow that seemed to include Sansa in its scope. “I’ll head over to the Isle and let him know. The Lord of Light protect you all.”

Sandor snorted, startling Stranger to leaping off the counter and stalking back amongst the gifts. “Fuck off, you religious fuckwit.”

The man laughed as he left the store.

“I’ll go and make your Hate Bouquet,” said Sandor abruptly, and before she could reply he disappeared through the ‘employees only’ door behind him.

As she waited, Sansa wandered around the gift section. She spotted something else new on a shelf, a set of tiny birds carved from a variety of local woods. Sparrows, starlings, finches. All from branches that had fallen naturally, according to the information card. Overseeing the little birds was a larger owl. She smiled at it. Owls always made her happy, she loved their quirky faces and fluffed up feathers.

There were more animals that she eventually noticed, but the birds had held her attention too strongly before. All made by the same craftsperson. A beautifully carved wolf, Arya would like that. A sturdy looking horse and a large dog sat beside it. She ran a finger down the dog’s wooden body. It had a captivating air of steadiness and solidity about it.

Beside the animals sat a single silk flower, which she picked up and examined next. It was a purple lilac, handcrafted by an artisan in Saltpans from ethically produced Yi Ti silk.

Sansa jumped as Sandor spoke. She’d been too focused on the flower to notice that he’d approached her, his arms filled with two bouquets. One was mostly orange and green, the other composed of blue and purple tones with some white and pale pink.

“Got the flowers for your horrible fucking boss,” he said, holding out the orange bouquet. For such angry symbolism of the flowers it looked beautiful, packed with lilies, geraniums and the greenery she wanted.

“These are perfect,” said Sansa. “Satisfyingly passive aggressive. How much do I owe you for them?”

Sandor shook his head and held out the other flowers. He seemed a little nervous. “These are for you. Did you want to sell some of your paintings here?” He spoke quickly. “I only take the best, and your paintings are top fucking quality.”

Sansa looked from his flushed face to the second bouquet. Purple lilacs, blue violets, delicate jasmine flowers, purple azaleas and pale pink gillyflowers were all carefully assembled and tied with a white ribbon.

“That would be amazing Sandor, I’d love to sell my paintings here. And,” she felt her cheeks grow warm, “thank you for these flowers. They’re beautiful.”

Sandor grunted in acknowledgement, then looked down at his feet. His hair fell forward over his face even more, and Sansa had to restrain the urge to tuck it back behind what was left of his ear so she could see him properly. Stranger appeared from under the display shelf and started sniffing Sandor’s shoe, rubbing his face against it and then flopping his body over Sandor’s foot.

“I’d be interested in giving you some more flowers,” he said after a pause. “If you were interested in that too?”

Sansa’s heart gave a little flutter. Was he obliquely asking her out? And if he was, was she ready to give up her vow not to date? She’d only just met Sandor, after all. She didn’t know anything about him except that she found him attractive and he liked cats and flowers. But there was something about him… and he was after all the man who lived his life making beautiful things for others to enjoy.

“For my paintings?” she said, proudly keeping her voice steady.

He nodded. “For your paintings, and…” he cleared his throat, “and for you.”

There was a pause, wherein Sansa tried to calm herself. What was the harm in seeing where things might go?

Sansa touched his arm and smiled. “I’d like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve marked this complete as a one-shot but there is scope for maybe a chapter of smut, so feel free to subscribe if you want to be notified if I do that (I would prefer to add a chapter to this story rather than making this into a series with one-shots). 
> 
> I’d love to hear what you think of this little story, and if you would like to hear more about these versions of the characters 😊


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